“One thing at a time,” I said. “Save your daughter. That’s all. Figure the rest out later.”
I lifted the sledgehammer and dragged the head across the basement floor to the center of the room, beneath the dull light. I stared at the floor.
“Fuck it,” I said.
With a deep breath, I brought the sledgehammer high over my head and slammed it into the cement. The floor cracked, breaking into shards, crumbling further with each successive hit. I worked the concrete until it lay piled in chunks. Tossing the sledgehammer aside, I cleared the rubble and exposed a four-by-two metal chest.
Above me, footsteps rattled the ceiling. Muffled voices grew louder and more desperate. My guests must have heard me. Well, lucky for them, I would make my appearance pretty soon now. They couldn’t reach me, so I took my time getting ready. I had lied to Xander. Other than the exterior hatch, there was no access to the basement. The vampires could search and search for an entry point, but unless they could break through the solid steel door that Xander had so kindly locked, then live after activating the nasty runes protecting the basement, they would find absolutely nothing. I guess they could dig through my floorboards, but come on. I was most likely dealing with Ravens, and I doubted they could figure that much out.
I opened the chest.
My four guns rested comfortably inside like babies tucked into their bassinets. My two oldest and biggest children—an assault rifle named Hansel and a twelve-gauge named Gretel—lay side by side. My younger babies—two Glock 17s named Henrietta and Bambico—nestled in close to their elder siblings. The sight brought tears to my eyes.
Each weapon bore runes, ones that I had poured my energy and magic into. Below the first compartment holding the weapons, I had holsters and belts and magazines. I no longer had any ammunition, though. When I had buried the guns, I knew that if I kept the rounds and shells, my children would want me to take them outside and play ball. So, I had handed my inscribed ammunition over to Xander to destroy. Which sucked, because it had taken the better part of an hour to carve the sigils into a single round and then pour magical energy into it.
The shotgun, Gretel, fit through a scabbard that looped around my shoulder and fixed to my back. Henrietta and Bambico strapped to my hips courtesy of holsters that I thought looked like something from a badass western. I’m your huckleberry. Fuck yeah—fist pump. Maybe a little corny, but also, I had to readjust my pants a little. The assault rifle, my boy Hansel, fit over my back by a strap, crossing over the shotgun’s scabbard. I looped the ammunition belt around my chest, even though it was empty.
Why the heavy artillery, you might ask. And it’s a good question. An Acolyte gifted with the ability to access magic has to learn how to control their power. If not, the results are similar to—or worse than—when I blew up Xander’s car on accident. Through practice and constant communication and service to their Nephil, an Acolyte can learn to control unfocused magic—usually monks, who do nothing all day but mediate, or druids, who have lost sense of time as they abandon society for nature and live unnoticed for hundreds of years. For the more impatient, we have to channel that magic through an instrument—typically wands, staffs, or swords.
Call me progressive, but I preferred guns and ammunition.
Wow, cheater much, you might think. But let me tell you, it’s probably the most complicated and tedious form of channeling magic. Not only do I have to inscribe the gun with runes, but I have to do the same to the magazines and every round. I then have to charge the runes of every round of every gun with my energy before a fight. If I overexert the charged energy during a battle, then the weapons are as useless as Xander’s old love noodle and I don’t have focused magic to use. It takes time on the backend to carve sigils onto the ammunition, but it saves a lot of energy during a fight and helps with the precision of my attacks. And when I run out of ammo, I’m out, stuck with just my baser means of chaotic power. Unfocused magic isn’t an unlimited source for me—or anyone—to access. Each usage without using a pre-charged focus drains me physically, and if I overexert myself, I die. Acolytes who use, say, a staff, have to channel their energy and magic through that staff, until they run out of juice. It’s simpler than firearms, but they just aren’t my style. I leave that shit to the Gandalf wannabes.
One last thing about the importance of a focus. It’s reason numero one million why no one really cares about or feels threatened by most sorcerers—those Wikipedia nerds who access magic without a pact. Without the proper training or a focus tied to their patron’s power, they can only draw on a the limited exhaustible, life-sustaining magic within themselves. Once that’s used, inevitably performing some bullshit trick to impress their friends, they die.
So, without my ammunition now to complete my focus, I would have to draw on the internal, more chaotic side of my powers. I closed my eyes and sent my perception upward, toward my room. Vampires don’t have heartbeats, but they have a distinct aura that emanates their life force. Using that as a beacon, I counted six bodies directly above me.
I stepped clear of the center of the ceiling, flattening by body against the far wall and sitting on my haunches. I focused, circling my hands around each other and building a ball of fire. The power trembled between my palms—the energy wild and uncontrolled. Luckily,
